The Zurich Conspiracy

“The locals also call the Mattental ‘Güldeli.’”
    “Güldeni? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “Güldeli, not Güldeni.”
    Josefa sank back into the pillows in despair. She’d been rescued by courageous people, but there was nothing she could do to help find Claire. “Güldeli for gülden or golden,” she murmured, exhausted.
    Kündig scowled. “I’ll phone my colleagues again; maybe they’ve dug up some more information in the meantime.” He went to the door.
    “Dorita!”
    “Beg your pardon?” Kündig turned on his heel.
    “Dorita. Don’t you remember? You asked me at the police station if I knew who Dorita was. Translate ‘Dorita’ into German and it comes out ‘the little golden one.’ Or ‘Güldeli’ in the dialect. Maybe it’s not coincidental.” Josefa’s cheeks glowed.
    Kündig was puzzled. He looked at her without saying a word, then asked, “In what language?”
    “What did you say?”
    “What language is ‘Dorita’ in?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe Spanish. But I’m not sure.”
    “Spanish.” Kündig frowned. “Spanish,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, that makes sense. That makes sense.”
    “Who is Dorita?” Josefa asked.
    But Kündig was already out the door.

That sound again—a crunching, like footsteps in the snow. She peeked out the window but could only make out the shadowy silhouettes of fir trees. Maybe it was an animal; she’d seen deer around the chalet.
    She put on her down jacket and slipped on her trekking boots. Then she grabbed the key, clutching it like a talisman. She climbed carefully up onto the table and opened the little window at the rear of the chalet. She slid over the sill and glided down into the soft snow, then closed the shutters, leaving a small crack. Now she listened. There was a faraway buzzing noise like the sound of a helicopter. She quickly ran behind the nearest fir. She circled the chalet under cover of the trees. The snow was trampled down right beside the walls all around the building. Were those her tracks? She had to make sure. Her hand felt for the reassuring cold metal in her pocket. She couldn’t hear anything suspicious. Trudging ahead as quietly as possible, she checked the tracks in the snow by the dimming light. No doubt about it, they were hers. Relieved, she stood up straight and stalked toward the door. She pulled out the key—and stopped short. Her eyes fell on something that made her blood run cold. A large, unfamiliar footprint.
    The window . Opening the door would take too long. She ran around the corner, pushed the window open, and pulled herself up on the sill, holding the key in her teeth. She pulled one leg up after her but couldn’t get any purchase on the sill.
    She tried it again.
    “May I help you?” A loud, mocking voice. A man’s voice. Claire’s knee was stuck between her arm and the sill, so she couldn’t turn her head to see him. Now she heard him coming closer. She figured out at once from which direction: from the shadows behind the fir tree where she’d hidden.
    Her arms slackened, and she let herself drop. The key plopped into the snow. The man was already right behind her.
    “Criminal Investigation. Do exactly what I tell you,” he commanded. “Pick up the key.”
    She bent down, turning slightly, and when she straightened up, she was staring down a gun barrel. The man had a dark ski suit on, a hood that revealed just a bit of his face, and opaque sunglasses.
    “Now go to the door.”
    Cops out of uniform. How did they find her? Or were they not looking for her at all?
    Maybe it was all a mix-up. Best to play the innocent.
    “Please put that gun away, it scares me,” she requested in a soft voice.
    “Just a precautionary measure,” the man said. His voice was calm, superior. “Unlock it.”
    How did he know the door was locked? How long had she been watched?
    She turned the key, and the lock stuck, as always. She turned around. “Could you push the door open, it’s so heavy.”
    Maybe he’d fall for it.
    “You can easily do it yourself,” the man replied. “And don’t try to make a run for it; our men have the place covered.”
    She pushed the door open with great effort. She’d found her role, the helpless victim.
    “Shut the window,” the man said as he sat down on the sofa. She saw he was wearing thin leather gloves. When she got to the window, he changed his mind.
    “No, leave it open.”
    She turned around and faced him. He was still pointing the gun at